When a neighbor calls about tenants in Carla’s late father’s house, she’s confused — until she drives out and discovers beer cans, loud music… and betrayal. Her husband rented the place behind her back.
But grief has teeth — and she’s about to bite back.
At first, I thought I’d heard wrong when Mrs. Yarrow, my deceased dad’s longtime neighbor, called me.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “Could you repeat that?”
“I said, can you do something about your tenants?” She sounded irritated, like she’d been dealing with problems for weeks.
“The young men staying at your father’s house. The noise is ridiculous.”
My skin went cold. Tenants?
What tenants?
I never rented out Dad’s house. I’d barely been able to bring myself to step inside since he passed unexpectedly the year before.
Just knowing it was still there, untouched, gave me something to hold onto. Like the grief had a shape, and it lived in those walls.
“Mrs.
Yarrow,” I said slowly, “I think there’s been some mistake.”
“Carla, dear,” she sighed, “the only mistake here is in your choice of tenants, unfortunately. If you weren’t planning to check on them yourself, you could’ve asked me to keep an eye on them, you know?”
“I… I’m heading right over. There shouldn’t be anyone staying there, Mrs.
Yarrow.”
My heart started racing as I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
Dad’s house was in the next town over, around an hour away — too far for casual drop-ins, but close enough that I should’ve known something was wrong.
The moment I turned onto Dad’s street, my gut twisted.
Three beat-up sedans lined the driveway. The front door was wide open, and music pulsed from inside, some bass-heavy song that made my teeth ache.
I pulled over, stunned.
It was like walking in on someone defiling a grave.
The porch was stained with God knows what, and there were beer cans scattered across the lawn and in the garden beds. Where Dad’s rocking chair used to sit, there was now a cheap lawn chair.
I sat there for a minute, trying to process what I was seeing. I hadn’t told anyone where the spare key was hidden.
No one except—
That’s when I spotted it. Through the open garage door, parked behind Dad’s old workbench, was a car I recognized: Nate’s beat-up Honda. My husband’s gaming buddy.
The truth landed like a slap.
Phil had done this.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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